


Honour Guard

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aftermath of Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Includes minor characters from canon cases, Prompt Fic, Whumped Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4444370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes reacts to a telegram.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honour Guard

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP #27: Aside From Yourself, I Have None.  
> Warnings: Follows [A Well-Planned Assault. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4433171) Aftermath of Watsonian whump. References to many characters mentioned in canon cases. Possibly implausible Holmes-voice. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.

I did not wait for the train to come to a halt. I leapt to the platform as soon as the train slowed enough and sprinted for the cab-stand, my travelling-bag in hand. Knowing London cabbies as I do, it was the work of moments before I was settled in the fastest hack available, with a well-motivated cabbie urging his horse to its best speed. There was nothing more I could do for the moment, but I could not relax. Every moment, that fateful telegram burned in my mind, every letter impressed in perfect recall.  
  
JHW ATTACKED STOP IN HOSPITAL PROGNOSIS UNCERTAIN STOP ASSAILANTS NOT YET DISCOVERED STOP RETURN IMMEDIATELY IF ABLE STOP UCH MH FINAL STOP  
  
The telegram had lain unread, waiting for me at my hotel, for nearly a week. The concierge had not known where to find me. No one had. My work had required the utmost discretion at its conclusion. I had only returned to my hotel after concluding the case, worn but triumphant. The satisfaction I felt at my success turned to ashy horror the moment I read the first words.  
  
There had been no further telegrams from Mycroft waiting for me, despite the subsequent delay. Nor had there been any other messages. This, more than anything else, convinced me that the message was genuine; Mycroft and I had long since established certain protocols for urgent communications, and both the missive itself (the structure of only even-numbered sentences, certain wording, the initials of the hospital just before his own) and the lack of further messages met that criteria. I had sent a hasty wire in return as I departed my hotel, but I well knew that no other message from Mycroft could reach me before I arrived in London.  
  
Before I learned for myself what had become of my Watson.  
  
I observed the constable in the reception area and the way his attention focused on me when I asked for Watson. I did not know the man, but he seemed to know me, for he gave me a little nod before returning his attention to his notebook. At another time I might have approached him, inquired as to his purpose here, but not at this moment. I merely made note of his presence and moved on, following the matron who led the way.  
  
The woman guided me not to the wards, which I expected, but to a private room, where contagious cases could be isolated. She opened the door and gestured me inside before I could ask why.  
  
And I found myself facing a loaded pistol at close range.  
  
“Hm.” The gun was lowered almost at once. “It _is_ you. About time.”  
  
I knew the man. “Colonel Hayter. What are you doing here? Where is Watson?”  
  
Hayter gestured to another door at the other side of the room. “His room’s through that door. He’s alive, but his ribs are still too fragile for him to be moved, at least according to Doctor Jackson, Doctor Anstruther, and Doctor Trevelyan.They’ve been taking turns attending him, and ensuring that the only nurses caring for him are ones they know personally. Anstruther’s in there with him now.”  
  
He did not need to say more. I deduced the rest. “How many attempts have there been?”  
  
“Aside from the initial attack? At least three, including one impostor pretending to be _you_. He was a close enough match that he fooled the constable that Inspector Lestrade had stationed in the lobby – they’re working volunteer shifts, and I gather the man was half asleep – but fortunately Thurston still remembers his military days well enough. He got the drop on him and stopped the fellow before he could do anything more than give the nurse a fright.” Hayter shook his head. “I thought the Inspector was going to flay the skin right off the fellow who made the mistake. I haven’t heard a chewing out that thorough since the Army.”  
  
Had I known that Thurston was a former soldier, as Watson was? I knew that Watson socialized with Anstruther and Jackson, but when had he struck up a friendship with Trevelyan? At least three more attempts to kill Watson? My mind whirled at the array of revelations, but one question came to the fore. “You all seem to have done admirably,” I told him. “But how did you know to come?” Either Mycroft had been extraordinarily industrious and knew far more about Watson than I had imagined, or…  
  
“Percy Phelps.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
Hayter snorted. “I had nearly the same reaction. I met the man a few years ago when I came up to London and stayed a few weeks. John had a few of us to dinner at his home, he and Mary, God rest her soul. Phelps, Thurston, Jackson, and me. What a mismatched bunch, or so you might think. But the evening went swimmingly, because John Watson has a knack for that. For friendship, and loyalty, and for looking past the surface differences and finding the worth beneath, as I think you well know.  We went back to my club after the dinner, the four of us, and wound up talking far into the evening. We exchanged calling cards. But I haven’t thought about him since, not until I got his wire about John and asking me to come up. He’s got deep pockets, apparently, for he’s fronted all the expenses here. Not that I wouldn’t have come anyway, but it’s made things a damn sight easier.”  
  
Phelps. Of course. I knew that he held Watson in the highest regard, practically hero-worshipped him. Mycroft and I had discussed it when Watson’s heavily-fictionalized account of the treaty affair was published. And with Phelps working in the Foreign Office, it would have been trivial for Mycroft to contact him. Phelps – Phelps! – must have done the rest. Well, possibly not Lestrade. He likely came of his own accord, possibly even bullied his way into taking over the case. He, too, was someone Watson called friend.  
  
My extraordinary friend, who brought out the best in so many, myself not least. I swallowed. “I owe you a great debt, as does Watson.”  
  
Hayter shook his head dismissively. “It’s nothing more than John would have done for any of us. Has done, in fact, in one way or another, many times over. But that’s neither here nor there. I imagine you’d like to see him.”  
  
Even more than before, if that was possible. I nodded and made my way to the second door. Colonel Hayter stayed behind, still on guard.  
  
The room was tiny, scarcely large enough to hold the bed and the few people already in the room. Anstruther looked up sharply as the door opened, then grunted in recognition and returned his attention to his patient. The copper-haired man in the corner half-rose out of his chair before subsiding at Anstruther’s lack of alarm. Heavily-tanned with all the telltale marks of the career soldier, he continued to watch me warily. The matron, on the other hand, did not bother to look up from her task of gently bathing the terribly-battered face of her patient.  
  
Of Watson.  
  
Face swollen and bruised almost beyond recognition, one eye completely swollen shut, purple-black marks on every bit of skin I could see. Lips split and scabbed over. His shallow, hitching breaths spoke loudly of pain no amount of drugs could allay.  
  
But awake, and aware enough to open the one eye he could. Hazy recognition lit its depths, and one side of his mouth moved in something that could almost be imagined as a smile.  
  
“H’lms.” Only one word, rough but surprisingly clear.  
  
“Watson.” One word in return. The only word that mattered. He knew me well enough to hear all the rest: my rage, my concern, my silent vow to bring to justice those who had done this to him, and all the other things that I could not name even to myself. He knew them all the same, just as he always did.  
  
It was enough. When Lestrade arrived a few minutes later, I willingly went with him, to follow the leads he had painstakingly gathered. The trail would only grow colder for delay, and I knew Watson was in good hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 27, 2015


End file.
